


I Am a Beast of Avarice

by LitMech (PatrioticFrisbee)



Series: In Which Erik is a Collector [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, In Which Erik is a very wealthy Sociopath, Modern AU, New Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatrioticFrisbee/pseuds/LitMech
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is a collector. He collects beautiful things. Soft things. But in their beauty, there is endurance. Strength. Danger.</p><p>He and Emma speak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am a Beast of Avarice

**Author's Note:**

> This is a springboard fic.

Erik was, is, has always been, fond of soft things. The way they sit in his hand, drift over his fingers, through them. The way they feel, the yield and weight of them.

Erik loved silk, for example, true, genuine silk. Especially from Turkey; hand spun thread woven into intricate patterns on rugs or even the fabric for clothing or pillows or linens. Once, in a brief run through Ephesus, he had stopped at a Silk Shop. He had run his hands over the brilliant blues and sparkling golds, felt it's surprisingly heavy sturdiness tumble through his fingers like water. Erik allowed himself so little, but this incredibly strong, incredibly beautiful piece of handiwork could not be forgotten. He bought himself a yard of the darkest indigo he had ever seen; had sewn the edges over onto themselves to prevent fraying, and would keep it in his satchel. It would be a relief, to touch and pet and drag and feel the hard work, the sweat, the skill, which had gone into it. A luxury, one of few, but one he kept close and cherished.

It was in that yard of silk that his obsession began. In that yard of midnight, in its thousands of threads, in its heavy yield and density and strength and grace and finesse and beauty and elegance, his obsession began. This urge, this yearning for more of the same thing. From the silk, he would later find cashmere. He purchased himself a sweater. There spawned the first touch of Chinchilla, and from it a fur-lined leather coat. A velvet duvet. Satin dress shirts. Chenille. Suede. Rugs. Chairs. Suits. Shoes. From but one yard of fabric Erik’s entire life became ensconced in tassels and embroidery.

It was a change in him that stunned his remaining family. Or what chose to call him family. After all, when one has a guardian of Shaw’s caliber, when one inherits more money than the Queen of England, what else does one do with it?

He stands beside Emma, who wears silk and rabbit’s fur and diamonds and leather, in the completed remodeling of the front foyer. Inside his pockets he can feet the sharp angles of the platinum-plated zippo, the slide of his steel ring on the silk of his trouser lining. Around him, white marble gleams. The rugs on the floor almost glow with the intensity of their colour. Emma takes two steps, rests a slender, dainty hand on the mahogany of a runner table upon which is a steal basin containing stones, water, and bamboo shoots. She looks at the room, light and dark, strong and elegant, before her gaze falls instead on Erik himself. He waits.  
There is a hush, in the silence of the manor. One not so much in metaphor; something thick and alive and physical. He smiles at the tip of her head.

“All these things.” She moves with the elegance of a dancer as she motions at his new world. “You’ve only just begun, haven’t you.”

“Only just,” he agrees. He heels of his shoes click as he steps again to stand beside her.

“What more could you possibly want?” She looked at him again, then. Emma knew things. She had this way of seeing. Erik didn’t mind, he had hoped she would ask.

“I have filled my nest with strong material. With shiny things,” this he says with amusement. “And now I attract my mate.”

“I feel bad for them,” though every ounce of her impressive amount of attention is on him, Emma keeps her eyes turned away. For once, the ice is gone from her voice. She sounds almost concerned. Erik doesn’t care. “Whomever they are. I feel bad.”


End file.
